One Hall of Tapestries of Vairë
by KiyaNamiel
Summary: Part of the one hundred Drabble challenge by NirCele, all prompts come from her. Will be focused on anything from the Silmarillion to LotR and from the Valar to Dwarves! Come with me as we wander through the halls of Mandos, and let us take a peek into one hall of different scenes in the History of Eä as woven by lady Vairë.
1. Fire

_So, I have taken on the one hundred Drabble challenge issues by NirCele! By her permission, many of these will be one-shots instead of just a 500 word Drabble, because I like writing emotion and angst as well as humor. ;) No race or time will be excluded from this series, so be prepared to learn something new!_

 _So, let's wander through the halls of Mandos and let me be your guide as we explore and see the many tapestries that depict scenes from the history of Eä. I hope that I may make you both laugh and cry, as we learn new things and rediscover old friends in our wanderings..._

* * *

 **#001 Fire**

 **Reminiscent of Perilous Fire**

He was wandering through endless darkness, where space and time did not exist. Where there was nothing but a vast emptiness, filled with regret and pain. He could have sworn that something gashed teeth at him, watched him, reached out for him with black, burnt fingers to drag him farther into the darkness-

A voice called out. Filled with desperation and a plea not to leave it alone. It tugged at him, begging him to come back and make things right that were terribly wrong. Something that only he could make right. And slowly, the darkness began to recede.

"Faramir! Faramir!"

His eyes slowly opened, the world swimming into hazy view to see a fog of orange clouding his vision, licking at the edges of his consciousness. Heat smacked him rudely awake as he forced his sluggish mind to focus. There was someone calling him...

A pale, pasty face looked at him with a horror-stricken expression, one framed with dark hair that seemed vaguely familiar to him. A face surrounded by burning, judgmental flames that tortured him, forced him to wake up, be better, do things right, be more like his brother-

"Faramir?"

The whisper somehow reached his ears despite the crackling that surrounded him, and the long-forgotten care in it made him smile faintly and unconsciously, reminiscent of better times when he was very much loved and cherished. It sounded so good, so familiar, and made his smile dreamy.

A pain-filled scream filled his ears, both of mental and physical pain, and a figure robed in living flame disappeared from his vision as did the rest of the world.

"And so passes Denethor son of Ecthelion, sixteenth steward of Gondor."

* * *

Faramir started up from his desk, breathing heavily and sweating as he gulped the cool air coming in through the window. His hand shot out in terror at the sight of a candle, and he winced as his hand smarted from the sound, fleshly smack against the metal candlestick. It tipped over the side of the desk, falling on the stone floor and burning for a moment before petering out.

He looked down at his hand where a bruise had formed, black and purple and _red_.

"I know what it's like." He turned to see the famous golden-haired Balrog-slayer of legend looking at him from where he sat by the window. Faramir nodded jerkily, swallowing heavily.

"Yes, I know what it's like, the feeling of it wreathing you in a passionate embrace of death, smothering you, unconscious of the destructiveness of its love." Glorfindel murmured, his hair glowing like a halo in the moonlight that streamed in ribbons through the window. "A burning candle... Mortal flame that goes out in a final burst of light, as though defying fate..."

"But the moment it goes out, how much darker the shadows seem." Faramir murmured.

"Indeed."

The two sat in the darkness, breathing it in together. There were no words needed to be said. They know. Perilous Fire.

* * *

 _A/N: Exactly 500 words, take that! Ah ha! But anyways, this was fun to write. Please tell me what you think!_


	2. Metal

_Thank you all for all of the follows, favorites, and reviews! This idea was taken from Fiondil about the Galvorn door, but I have not plagiarized any of his words or works. I have merely borrowed his idea. So, here is the next tapestry..._

* * *

 **#002 Metal**

 **The Galvorn Door**

Námo, judge of the dead, stood contemplatively in front of the door of one of the many rooms in his Halls. His Halls enlarged every year, and many rooms were added, but this room was in the farthest, deepest part of the Halls.

It was the Galvorn door- the place where all of the feär that refused to be judged and reborn stayed, or those who had committed unforgivable crimes in the past. Fëanor, a few of his sons, Maeglin, Eöl- these were some of the feär who resided behind this door. Ironic, really, as far as Eöl was concerned, considering that Galvorn was a metal that he had invented from the ore mined from the fallen stone from the sky.

Of course, Aulë had made this door, but still, it was like a reminder of who lived behind them. Strip, stark, irony.

Námo moved through the door effortlessly, his amaranthine eyes roaming over the wandering feär. Some of his least favorite tapestries were in here, and as he looked, he noticed that Maeglin was standing in front of the one of his death. Even though these feär couldn't 'see' with physical eyes, he supposed that they could sense the nature of things about them, and were naturally drawn to the ones that pertained to them.

Even as he watched with his eyes full of pity for these lost souls, Námo could not help but look to the pitiful sight of Finwë sitting by Fëanor, patiently waiting for his son to notice him over the tapestry that depicted the moment that he had discovered the formula for the silma that made up the Silmarils.

Then, of course, there was Maedhros, standing in front of his tapestry depicting his three years hanging by his iron chain to Thangorodrim.

As Námo left the room thoughtfully, his thoughts wandered to the mithril circlet on his brow, and he paused for a moment to take it off and look at it. It was decorated with flames encircling a large ruby, and he thought gravely on the gem's meaning: being able to see clearly and truly to the heart of things; a symbol of divine protection.

As for the mithril- it represented strength of spirit, soul, heart, and mind. Námo smiled faintly as he thought of the term the mortals used to refer to the now non-existent precious metal. Titanium. Indestructible, a metal of legend. He settled the circlet back on his brow and continued on his journey through his Halls, the lyrics of a song sung by mortals floating through his head.

 _I am titanium~_

* * *

 _So... I don't know what made me write this, but it just randomly popped into my head as I was thinking about that song 'Titanium.' But at any rate, I hope you enjoyed! This Drabble was 432 words long, in case anyone is interested._


	3. Retaliation

_Okay, another drabble! Thanks for all of the reviews and faves and follows. :)_

 _This time, let's go see that disconcerting tapestry of Tulkas Astoldo that most Elves here in the Halls of Mandos seem to particularly like to laugh at..._

* * *

 **#003 Retaliation**

 **íLálala Vala**

There had been several times when Tulkas Astoldo, the laughing Vala, has not laughed. Each time, it was mainly because he was very, very angry. But there was one time that can be clearly recalled when he was not laughing, and rather everyone was laughing at him. After all, it was all his fault, as he reluctantly admitted many, many years later.

It all started with a bet- and where the Valar are concerned, bets are always end with much cause for amusement. Which is the exact reason why many of them are never spoken among the Eldar, so that they may not have their image of the stern, wise Valar utterly ruined by the deep, dark secret of their bets. However, there was one bet that was aired among the Eldar and definitely caused much trauma and laughter.

The prequel was never, ever told among the Eldar, but I shall tell it to you for the sake of understanding exactly why Tulkas Astoldo was dressed in- well. I am getting ahead of myself. You see, what happened was that Tulkas laid a bet with Vairë on Námo's decision regarding the release of Beleg Cúthalion from the Halls of Mandos.

Unfortunately, Vairë lost. And therefore, for his love for his penitent wife, Námo was forced to extend everyone's stay in the Halls of Mandos for an extra few years to heal from trauma. After all, seeing the Judge of the Dead dressed in yellow is... Simply unthinkable. No one dared laugh. Whoever said that no one can hurt you when you're dead? Absolutely not (In public, anyhow- behind closed doors was a different matter entirely).

Námo, utterly put out, laid another bet with Nessa as soon as the day was over, who quite disapproved of her spouses' form of amusement. And, Námo won. I shall now proceed to give you the conversation held between Nessa and Tulkas at the news.

"You did what!?"

"You only brought it upon yourself. Please, Tulkas? Námo did it for the love of his wife, will you not do the same?"

"But Nessa-"

"Oh Tulkas, you won't?"

"N-no, don't cry, dear... But really, this!?"

"Tulkas-!"

"Alright! But only for you, Nessa... And if anyone ever hears about this... I will not be laughing."

Oh, but Vairë made it into a tapestry, and it was very much known. After all, one cannot help but laugh at the sight of a very miserable-looking Tulkas walking about in bright pink robes, can one?

But, as they also admitted, it led to greater respect for Námo- he, who hated wearing bright colors, _did_ wear yellow just for love of his wife. The tapestry of him dressed in yellow, however, was put into the farthest, emptiest hall there was.

After all, Tulkas may be the laughing Vala and therefore be laughed at in turn, but no one laughs at the Judge of the Dead.

"íLálala Vala, huh, Tulkas?"

"Shut it before I send you into the Void, Námo."

* * *

 _So. Amusing? Anyways, the meaning of the title is 'the laughing Vala.' I hope you enjoyed! Again, for those interested, the Drabble is exactly 500 words._


	4. Pet

_Another one! Jeez, this is way too fun..._

 _This time, let's go see that tapestry of a cute, blonde haired little elfling holding a squirming little wolf pup..._

* * *

 **#004 Pet**

 **A Gift Of Apprenticeship**

"I remember that day. You were so proud." A soft voice said to Oromë as he stood looking at the tapestry.

"I was." Was the heavy answer, as Oromë replied to Vairë.

"And why did it hurt you so much that when he took the oath and left you refused to allow any to go hunting with you?" Vairë's soft voice asked the great Hunter sympathetically.

"Because he was my apprentice, whether he knew it or not." Oromë replied sadly, and Vairë knew that it was now only a regretful memory, not as painful as it used to be. She remembered when Oromë would go out hunting alone, and come back weary and saddened, concerning poor Vána.

The tapestry itself was sad to look at, knowing the story, for it depicted a young elfling with blonde hair and green eyes, smiling happily and cuddling the scruffy, grey wolf pup. Celegorm seemed to look right at the viewer of the tapestry, his look of gratitude and love depicted perfectly. That one, fleeting moment of perfect joy in the feeling of the bundle of life entrusted to him.

Oromë turned from the tapestry, and saw that Vairë was gone. Instead there was a feä looking up at him with a blank, curious look. "Hello." It said bluntly, and Oromë inwardly railed at Vairë for allowing him to be put in such a position.

"Hello." Was all he answered with a faint smile, crossing his arms over his chest. The feä tilted his head.

"You were looking at the tapestry of me. Do you like it? I do. I don't remember having a pet, but I don't really remember much of my life anyway." He shrugged, looking at the depiction.

"I do like it- but in a way it also makes me feel sad." Oromë answered gently, careful not to injure the feä's feelings. They were like children in that aspect, innocent, forgetful, and easily hurt just like a child.

"I see. Lady Vairë told me that too. Was I a very bad child?" The feä wondered, running fingers over his woven face.

"As a child, I believe you were very normal. All children can be bad at times, but they are also good most of the time." Was Oromë's vague answer. The feä nodded thoughtfully.

"I see. What was the name of my pet?" Celegorm asked curiously, and Oromë looked at the tapestry thoughtfully.

"I believe you named him Huan, Tyelkormo." He began slowly, speaking his apprentice's name for the first in a long time. Tyelko would always be his apprentice.

"Really? I like that name. Can you tell me more?" Tyelkormo asked innocently.

Vairë, peeking around the corner a few moments later, saw with wise, violet eyes the sight of Oromë speaking with the feä, finding healing through the encounter as she had hoped. She smiled softly and slipped away to tell Námo, hearing the faint echo of laughter in her ears, along with Oromë's fond words.

"Yes, you were- Pityahuan."

* * *

 _The meaning of Pityahuan is 'little wolf' which I thought would be a fitting nickname for Tyelko. I don't really like him most of the time, but as an elfling I really think he might have been adorable. Or maybe that's just ThurinRanger's Plushie fic getting to me..._

 _But anyway, this Drabble was again exactly 500 words. ;) enjoy-!_


	5. Plants

_Thanks again for all of the faves, follows, and reviews. :) It pleases me to see that people enjoy it._

 _Our next tapestry is of Irmo in the gardens of Lórien... Weeping?_

* * *

 **#005 Plants**

 **Tears of Renewal**

Irmo, lord of Lórien, Vala of dreams and vision and desires, was walking through his gardens. His ruined gardens. Grief entered his heart as he looked at the wilted, trampled plants that were scattered about.

A groan of sorrow left his lips, and he bent down to caress the brown petals of an uprooted lily. Oh, that Melkor should have done this, that he had ruined all of this beauty just for the fun of it.

Standing, he forced himself to walk through the rest, assessing the damage to see what could be done. And then he came to one silver willow that had been damaged, it's bark torn and leaves stripped. All of the carnage finally broke Irmo, and he sank to his knees at the foot of the willow, hearing it mourn softly, it's voice weak in impending death.

And Irmo wept bitterly, not just that the beauty was spoiled, but for the plants themselves that breathed and spoke with their own voices. He had known all of them from their seeds and shoots, and he had heard their voices and sang along with them. Each of them was unique, and now many of them were gone.

The tree shivered as his tears fell onto its roots and gashed bark, allowing a few tearful leaves to drop onto his hair as though crowning him with the honor it had left to give. Irmo placed his hand on the beautiful willow, who sang a funeral dirge for the two Trees that had been killed by Melkor and Ungoliantë.

A wind swept through the gardens, sweeping the few leaves off of Irmo's hair and swirling them away on its cold breath. And Irmo continued to mourn the spoiling of Aman and Arda, while the tree joined him in its own, fading way.

Estë found her spouse sitting under the tree much later, tear tracks upon his cheeks and asleep in sorrow and exhaustion. The tree whispered softly, it's trunk whole and unscarred, it's leaves renews from the tears of Irmo, lord of Lórien.

She smiled sadly and knelt beside him, singing a gentle song of rest and comfort, smoothing his brow and wiping away the tears. His head turned into her palm, and she kissed him softly as he awoke. He smiled at her in thanks, looking up at the renewed tree, who trembled with gratitude and pride at the attention from its master.

"See, love? Your tears have renewed the silver willow of hope. Weep no more, for healing shall one day come to all of Eä." Estë said softly, and Irmo drew her into his arms gratefully.

"And it shall be through the tears of its inhabitants- prayers of repentance and a supplication for help." Was the gentle answer as the tree sang a new song of fledgling hope.

* * *

 _It was written in one of Tolkien's books that after Melkor had wreaked havoc on Aman and destroyed the trees that Irmo walked through his spoiled gardens and wept. It has always struck me as being such a poignant scene, and combined with the quote by Treebeard that he knew the trees from 'nuts and acorns,' and that 'they had voices of their own,' it only made sense that Irmo would be grieved for the same reason. The spelling of Ungoliant is not a typo, it is the Quenyän pronunciation/spelling of the name. Ungoliant is Sindarin._

 _I hope that you enjoyed this little prosaic piece, and the word count this time was 471._


	6. Run and Run and Run

_I know it's been several days since update, I apologize, but I was extremely busy and had no time or energy to update. But here, let me resume our tour... You could I guess consider this one to be tied in with the previous drabble Pet, but it doesn't have to be._

 _This next tapestry- I like it very much. Come, let us go take a run with Oromë and Vána..._

* * *

 **#006 Run and Run and Run**

 **A Punishment of a Different Sort**

I shivered slightly as the wind blew softly around me, though I was not cold. No, rather, I was afraid.

"Come, child." A familiar voice called to me, and I started and looked up to see the object of my fear- Oromë, lord of Forests. My face must have shown my fear, because his face softened slightly and he held out his hand.

"I will not hurt thee, my child. Come hither, and see for thyself that I merely wish to show you something and further your healing in the gardens of the Reborn." His voice, so deep, reverberated through my very bones, making them chatter where my teeth could not.

Yes, I was afraid of him. I had done him such wrong in my previous life, though I could not see it at the time. But now- by being Reborn, I see things now in a new light, unvarnished by my shallow prejudices.

At my judgement, the Valar had told me that there was no forgiveness for me because forgiveness requires atonement and there was naught I could do to atone for my many sins. But then they had told me that I would receive mercy, for that was the only thing that might be granted me. Now, I wonder if it was not mercy but punishment.

As though sensing my thoughts, lord Oromë gave me a shrewd look and spoke once more, lowering his hand. "I will not force thee to come, for this is not a punishment as thou thinkest, but merely a chance for healing. I wish to reforge our friendship, Pityahuan." The last words startled me, for it brought to mind a lost memory from my time in Mandos. Had he not called me that when I stood in front of a tapestry of myself?

Oromë turned and strode away, and after a moment I followed him hesitantly. He did not glance back, but led me deeper into the woods of Lórien, with their silver willows and green plants that seemed to dance of their own will. Some of the peace calmed me, and Oromë paused just before what seemed to be a clearing.

He turned and I paused, but he merely motioned me forwards and placed a finger to his lips. I obeyed, coming forwards and peering from around the tree to behold a sight I shall never forget for the rest of eternity.

Lady Vána danced, whirling about in the very embodiment of youthful grace as gems sparkled from her diadem and the shawl about her throat, and the jewels on her wrists and ankles. And the wolves. They sat in the center of the clearing, a pack with mothers and children, watching Vána dance as though they cared not of the presence of one not of their own kind.

I was so enthralled by the sight that I did not even realized I had moved into the clearing until Vána danced before me and took my arms, leading me into her intricate movements, drawing closer and closer before the wolves.

Slowly, as we began to dance among their midst, they rose, and Vána let me go as I stopped, catching my breath. A wolf pup came up to me, nosing my hand, and then loped off with the rest of his pack that seemed to be leaving. A shaft of pain pierced to my heart, and I began to weep as they left me.

And then Oromë was there, taking my hand and leading me after them. I stumbled after, and slowly Vána joined us as Oromë began to trot in tandem with the wolves. I followed after. And then we ran.

I ran and ran and ran, hardly aware of anything of the fact that I was running with the wolves, wild and free. We ran for leagues upon leagues, but I did not tire. Finally they stopped, and I huddled among the pups next to their mother, sharing their warmth until I slowly fell asleep to Oromë's contented smile and Vána's continuous dancing under Varda's stars.

I woke up to see Irmo sitting by my bedside in Lórien as I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I looked around, feeling myself become sorrowed. "Was it a dream?" I whispered sadly, and Irmo turned to me.

"No, child. It was not a dream. And you have once more become the apprentice of Oromë by overcoming your fear of him." Irmo smiled, and my small world was right once more.

"Welcome to life- Tyelkormo Fëanorion."

* * *

 _Well, this is my first one-shot. I debated cutting it down to a drabble, but then decided it would be too unfinished if I did and choppy. So I left it as it is with 752 words total. :) I hope you enjoyed, and have a blessed day! Kiya~_


	7. A Book

_Well, another attempt to tackle this challenge. Thank you for the faves and follows!_

 _This tapestry is one that is... not well understood oftentimes. But, that's what I am here for. Come, let's see this event from a certain Maia's eyes..._

* * *

 **#007 A Book**

 **Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, Keeper of the Book of Oaths**

At times, there are certain things that are not meant to be known until later. But, as Eönwë admitted, when one knows these things, it is rather difficult to keep one's tongue in check.

Especially when it is vital.

You see, Eönwë was the keeper of the Book of Oaths, an office appointed him by Eru Himself. He carried with him, most times, a large book that seemed to have no end of pages, and indeed never ran out of room to write in. It was kept in a special chamber accessible only to Eönwë, even should one know it's location- this very tapestry.

But let's go back in time, to the event that is depicted here. It is the early First Age, and Melkor had been captured from Utumno and brought before the Valar in chains, staying in Mandos for many years. Now in the Mahanaxár sits the other fourteen Valar, with Manwë and Námo sitting across from each other. Eönwë stands next to Manwë his lord, clutching the book to his chest as he watches the formidable Vala kneel before the throne.

"Melkor, dost thou know why thou'rt here?" Manwë's voice is reproachful and soft, and Melkor looks up at his brother with dark eyes that are too keen, too dark.

"Indeed, my brother, and I would ask of thee forgiveness for my wrongdoing." Comes the heavy reply, as there is a startled pause. Glances are exchanged, and Eönwë clutches his book harder, his fingers turning white as he struggles to keep his fear and disgust in check before his lords.

"I plead on his behalf." Nienna speaks up gently, tears falling from her deep blue eyes as she looks at Melkor with pity.

"As do I." Comes the surprising comment from a calm Irmo. Námo says nothing, and there is nothing on his face to reveal his thoughts.

"I trust thee not, Melkor, but I will abide by Manwë's word." Tulkas rumbles, his voice sending the earth into a spasm of shuddering.

There is a silence, and Eönwë hardly dares to breathe, pleading in his heart to their Atar that Manwë will not allow Melkor to go free.

"Then Melkor, thou wilt stay in Aman where we might see thee, and thou shalt wander as thou wilt within Aman for a time so that we may see that thou hast truly repented of thine deeds." Manwë finally speaks, his voice soft and breezy but emotionless.

Melkor smiles, and Eönwë shudders slightly. "I thank thee, my brethren, for allowing me this." He says smoothly. "I swear that I shall keep within Aman for the time allowed me, and I shall not disobey thee or the One."

Eönwë opens the book- his heart and his hands are heavy and slow. As he slowly writes the words of the Oath, each scrawl makes him feel more and more tainted and dirty. They are lies, all of them, and Eönwë knows it, for that gift was given to him by the One.

As he shuts the book, Eönwë wonders what Manwë will say later on when it has been made known that it was all a lie. He bit his tongue to keep from blurting his thoughts, feeling as though he could not bear it. The book shutting seems too loud in his ears, and Eönwë feels as though he will throw up.

Then his gaze meets Námo's, and there is an understanding look there. He knows. They know. But for reasons unknown to them, Atar has determined that it must be kept secret. But Eönwë feels relieved now, because he is not alone.

Melkor looks at Eönwë, and a frisson of enmity runs between them. They know.

But the Book of Oaths has kept note of it, and that is his job, after all.

Sometimes, it's hard not to speak when one knows the truth when no one else seems to or even care. But, as Eönwë knows, it's for a reason. He is the Keeper of the Book, and he will continue to do his job.

* * *

 _Funny, this particular one-shot seems a bit... I don't know... Odd? Meh. Anyways, I still had some sadistic fun writing this (poor Eönwë) and hope that you learned something or if not at least enjoyed it! This one was 677 words for the interested party._


	8. I Know You, But Where?

_This tapestry is one I have enjoyed looking at, many, many times. Come, my friends, and let me tell you the story of two friends who once met long ago in terrible circumstances..._

* * *

 **#008 I Know You, But Where?**

 **New Friends, Old Alliances**

Glorfindel stood guard over his section of the camp, shivering slightly and bitterly cursing the cold wind that blew relentlessly over the endless white plains of the Helcaraxë. They had lost Elenwë just days ago, and Turgon was not doing so well.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and Glorfindel sighed in gratefulness as he turned to see the one who would relieve him. Sapphire blue eyes met grey ones, and golden hair contrasted with dark locks that were the color of the deep ocean.

"Bitterly cold." The ellon remarked, and Glorfindel nodded, feeling his joints creak painfully from their frozen state.

"Too cold." He answered with a sigh, and then snorted. "Would be nice if my hair could actually warm me like Túrucano swore it could." He remarked dryly, and the other ellon burst into laughter.

"Then you must have it better than I, because he swore that mine would chill him on a hot day." Was the answer, and Glorfindel threw back his head to laugh.

But that had been years ago. Now- staring at the tapestry of him and the ellon laughing in the middle of a blizzard- a lone feä wondered who the other was.

"That's me." A proud voice said, ghostly and spectral behind him. Ecthelion turned, and saw another feä looking at the tapestry.

"Hi. My name is Glorfindel. What's yours?" The feä asked bluntly, and Ecthelion smiled shyly at him.

"My name is Ecthelion. That's me, in the tapestry." He said, and Glorfindel smiled.

"I wonder what we were laughing about. Do you think we were friends? Do you want to be my friend now, if we weren't then?" Glorfindel rattled on, and Ecthelion found himself nodding wordlessly.

So Glorfindel dragged him off, and the two best friends in their former lives once more met each other and reforged severed bonds of camaraderie and friendship.

Námo, watching from a corner of the hall, smiled softly at the golden-haired Balrog slayer and the famed opponent of Gothmog skip away in innocent happiness, forgetful of the horrors of their previous lives.

"And so, fire and water meet once more, and are friends despite common opinion." He murmured and quietly walked away to another part of his halls, idly forming another prophecy of doom under his breath.

* * *

 _Well, this was fun. I've always loved the friendship of Glorfindel and Ecthelion, and wanted to think about if they might have met in Mandos. Surely they would have, I should think... Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! Word count: 381._


	9. Painting

_This tapestry is one that I both love and hate. I loathe it, and yet I love it. Come, and let me show you why..._

* * *

 **#009 Painting**

 **Blood, Sweat, and Tears**

Túrucano sat in the gardens of the Reborn in Lórien, staring at a blank easel that had been set before him, a paintbrush clutched in his hands and his mind utterly empty. He had been told to paint anything he wanted, but for the life of him he could not decide what to paint.

The white of the empty canvas stared back at him, and he blinked slowly. The white. The clean, utter crispness of it- the biting white... The freezing white... His hand lifted, and without even realizing it he was painting. He could remember it so well, the crossing of the Helcaraxë. Every detail of it.

White. The grey paint swirled over the canvas, howling obscenities as it tore at cloaks and ears and continuously shifted the patterns of the never-ending whiteness. Mounds of it. Hills of it. Plains of it. The choleric wind decided to leave off its clawing and instead swept off, dripping onto the floor as it left behind gashes in the cheeks of the blank canvas.

Blue. There had always been blue from the very moment they stepped onto the fields of white. Always shifting under their feet, cracking, moaning in pain as their feet trod lightly across the surface of treacherous, pale blue. A sheen of blue tinged everything, its joints crackling in their ears as they disturbed its frozen sleep. The ice crept up their feet and into their very bones, kissing their lips until they were blue, nipping their ears and leaving frostbitten, fingerprint bruises on them like a rough lover.

Black. The water. Always the water had been black under the ice, lapping greedily at the ice as though to taste their flesh. And oh, how ravenous the waters could be, black and red and stained like ink. He would never forget the horrific cracking and screaming that occasionally broke the monotony of the never-ending days as an Elf fell into the cold, welcoming embrace of the water. How it would crawl over them and swallow them like it did his wife, leaving him with nothing but his daughter, lapping at the edges of the jagged teeth of ice like a satisfied tongue.

And always the red. It would flash here and there, staining his vision with it. Spilling onto the white, spreading across it sluggishly in a crawling stain. Yes, the red. It stained his fingers some days, hot and wet and criminally warm.

His eyes refocused on the present, and he saw the mess he had made on the floor and his hands. But he looked at his painting, and fell to the ground, weeping. Paint dripped off of the canvas, splattering his hair with blood, sweat, and grime, mingled with his tears.

His painting was a masterpiece. He hated it. And yet he loved it, for it reminded him of what he and his people had survived, against all odds.

His painting was horrendously beautiful.

* * *

 _Wow. I really love doing these pieces- I AM NOT A SADIST. Promise. I just... These sort of scenes seem to come to me naturally somehow. This was somewhat inspired by gingerrogers, as he/she told me that they'd like me to expand the previous Helcaraxë idea. So I suppose this could be considered another take on that scene-? Besides,This gives me feels. THE FEELS. *breaks down sobbing* sorry... I'll just go now and mourn the terrible person I am..._

 _For all that this seemed chock-full, it was only 491 words. #Accomplishment #I'llJustGoCrawlInAHoleNowAndDie_


	10. I Am Still Here

_This tapestry is one that makes me sad. Perhaps it will make you sad too, and see another dimension to the whole Silmaril business..._

* * *

 **#010 I Am Still Here**

 **Statues Standing Still**

Nerdanel Mahtaniel sat in her studio, a room made of marble with thin windows making slits in the wall. Beams of light sliced through the cool studio, illuminating the dust motes that floated about lazily in the air and came to rest on the bent head of fire.

Her hands clenched a chisel and hammer, spasming around their handles. A block of marble stood in front of her, patiently awaiting a transformation. For a long moment, there was no sound but that of breathing and the wind; then slowly Nerdanel stood, lifting the chisel and hammer and placing the, against the marble.

For hours she worked, the hammer never stopping its furious pounding and the breathing never faltering, coming even and deep. Each strike was an outlet of anger, betrayal, weariness, sorrow, and pain, all mingled together. Chips of rock flew into the air, slivers scattered on the floor, and dust powdered everything nearby in a fine cloak of snow in the cool room.

Finally the tools were dropped, clattering to the ground from aching, nerveless fingers. The block of marble seemed to take life, turning away from the agonized gaze of the elleth coldly. Its hand stretched behind it as though rejecting something or tossing it away, and then froze once more into a grey statue. But Nerdanel saw it continue on before it faded from her view, and in a paroxysm of grief fell to her knees in front of the sculpture, bursting into wracking sobs.

The stature stood still, not caring that it was tossing away her heart, frozen into her heart, mind, and soul as she pounded the floor with her fists, tears melting the slivers of icy marble under her bruised fingers. Grey snow powdered her from her work and slowly froze her heart, causing her to slowly crumple into a statue, weeping weakly.

And thus Mahtan found her, two statues standing still in the fading light of the dim studio. His head bowed in grief as he looked upon the two, forever immortalized through the rest of the Ages- forsaker and forsaken.

 _"Clay...life; plaster, death; marble, immortality." -Ian Hamilton Findlay._

* * *

 _This made me almost sob. People always think of Fëanor, but not Nerdanel... What did she do when she was left alone, forsaken and forgotten? Maybe something like this... Plus, I had to make some sort_ _of reference to the whole 'Nerdanel's sculptures were said to look life-like' deal._

 _Wow, ten already! Nine drabbles and a one shot. This one was 357 words._


	11. Language Lessons

_This tapestry makes me laugh every time I see it. Let's see if it does the same to you._

* * *

 **#011 Language Lessons**

 **Particularly Punny Puns**

"No no, it's a horseless carriage, not a magical contraption. It's has a perfectly logical way of working that has nothing to do with hocus pocus abracadabra." Henry Ford said in exasperation, sighing as the feä of Finrod Felagund looked at him in confusion.

"I do not understand what this abra-ca-da-bara has to do with this horseless carriage." Finrod said in all innocence, while the late Mr. Ford attempted to stifle a groan.

"It's just an... Expression." He said hastily. "This particular carriage is called a van." He said, pointing out a tin-type photograph of said vehicle.

Finrod peered at it. "It does not look like a goose to me." He declared solemnly, and Henry looked at him incredulously. What has this got to do with a goose?" He asked in honest bewilderment.

"I was hoping that thou couldst tell me." Finrod replied simply, secretly wondering if this truly was a descendant of the house of Beör. He didn't remember them being this confusing or seemingly stupid before.

"No, no, it's a van, not a goose." Henry tried, and Finrod hummed.

"But thou art saying it is called goose in Sindarin." He pointed out reasonably.

"Oh for the love of- no, it's English, not Sindareen or whatever you're saying." Poor Henry felt rather exhausted. If he'd had a body, he was sure his very mustache would have been drooping limply by this point.

Námo, watching quietly from a dark corner, nearly laughed aloud, instead grinning widely as he watched the poor confused Finrod and exasperated Henry try to communicate.

"I... See." Finrod said, though it was obvious that he didn't. "And this- this space here?" He asked, pointing at the windows of the van in the picture.

"Those are windows. They're made with glass." Henry said, rather relieved that he wouldn't have to explain the name anymore.

"Made of happiness? Is there such a thing?" Finrod asked incredulously, and Henry did groan this time as Námo choked back his hysterical laughter.

"No! Where did you get that idea! It's made of a clear substance called glass that's easily breakable." Henry tried, thrown into another loop.

"But thou didst call this strange thing happiness." Finrod insisted.

"No, it's not Sidrin or whatever. It's English. Called glass." Henry languished in his chair, while Finrod looked thoughtful.

"It is called Sindarin." Finrod reproached softly. "And glass means happy." He added.

"Well it doesn't in English. I say, your language is strange." Henry said in a fit of petulance, feeling that his attempt to explain his horseless carriage to the skeptics of his day had been infinitely easier compared to this psychological torture.

"And to me, no doubt thy language is stranger." Finrod replied calmly, and Henry threw up his hands.

"Well I'm sure." He groused. "What else, is there some meaning to the Spanish word 'el burro' in elvish too?" He snarked, and Finrod blinked.

"Vassal? What about a vassal?" He asked. "Indeed, this carriage could be called a vassal."

Námo burst into laughter as a Maia appeared before the utterly worn out Henry Ford to carry him away, coming out to lay a hand on Finrod's shoulder.

"Indeed, child, thou'rt amusing in thy attempt to communicate with Henry." He chuckled. "His language is quite different from thine, is it not?" He asked amusedly, and Finrod sighed.

"I still do not know what vassal or happiness or a goose has to do with a horseless carriage." Was his mournful answer as the halls filled with lord Námo's hearty laughter, causing all who heard it to smile, though they knew not why.

* * *

 _I couldn't help it. I was studying elvish and I read that 'glass' means happy, 'van' means goose, and 'burro' means vassal in Sindarin. Naturally, I laughed myself silly and this ridiculous fic was born. Well, maybe you learned something new. ;)_

 _This one shot was 602 words. Enough for a laugh? :)_


	12. Water

_This tapestry is one I have studied many times, thinking about it deeply. Come, let us see this conversation..._

* * *

 **#012 Water**

 **A Chink in the Armor of the World**

"Waters. They fascinate me so much that I cannot even describe what I feel about it. The way they deny and defy boundaries, ever carving out paths for themselves, yet stay within their settled bounds at the same time." Ecthelion was saying passionately.

"They are a breach in the walls of the world, the chink in the armor of the earth. They make me want to believe that there is a chink in the armor of fate somewhere, waiting, biding their time to rush through and eke out a new fate, another destiny. That is what I wanted to be. I wanted to learn how to be small and yet impact many for the better." He finished wistfully, and Ulmo nodded gravely.

"Indeed it is so. A chink." He agreed quietly, his voice detached and wispy. "In the armor of the world- a breach within the earth- a flood of ideas and thoughts that make way to forge the future..." He murmured, and a flute lifted to Ecthelion's lips.

And then the sound of the flute, clear and sharp, cut through the air like a delicate blade, whirling gracefully in a smooth, pointed dance. It started out with vibrating notes that rippled and almost caused Ulmo to believe that the air would move to make room for the powerfully small drops of sound.

Then the tone hardened, and became flat, rising and dipping but remaining monotone in rhythm, reminding them of the unyielding earth with its hills and valleys, ridges and drops. They climbed a mountain on the footprints of the rising notes, reaching the summit of the hill in a high note of triumph- then plunged over a cliff as the tune suddenly tumbled down in staccato and mangled, slurred notes, their bones bouncing and jarring as the notes erratically went lower.

Until they hit the bottom. The flute gasped for breath, jerkily inhaling with breathy notes. Ecthelion's fingers moved over the keys, pressing methodically and making Ulmo watch him, hypnotized and drawn into the spell that he weaved around them and clogged the air, packing them so tightly into place that they were forced to stand still and listen.

Then a wall rose before them, starting low and near the ground before rising in sharps and flats up as their minds scaled the wall, smooth and impenetrable. Then the notes began to search against the wall with probing, demanding fingers, poking sharply. When nothing gave, the fingers melted into liquid, pooling in the air and swirling in patterns that went around and around in captivating circles of sound.

Then the water began to move across the base of the wall, seeking, melting against the barrier, caressing the smooth wall. Then it suddenly plunged. It broke through, and the flute burst into a roar of sound, rising and falling in chaotic waves, shoving through the one crack and widening it. The flute gave a note that sounded like a sharp crack, and then the tune splintered.

It burst into disjointed yet harmonic sounds, little snatches of unrelated tunes that somehow melded into a jumbled mass that still sounded like music. The wall crumbled as the water won, carving a new path for itself like a raging Mûkmail, yet calming as it came down from the adrenaline of its frenzied push.

The tune bubbled down into a gurgling, shaking, trembling mass of harmonized notes, and then morphed into a little creek that frothed merrily, a gay and light tune that reminded them of little fireflies dancing and flashing in the night. Then it turned into a dreamy melody, full of hints of ideas, of creativity- and of inspiration.

It dreamed, presenting its store of thoughts to them in rapid succession as the notes flew by, Ecthelion's fingers running over the flute in an easy yet quick pattern. Then it began to accumulate, piling up until the notes began to crowd each other, shoving and pushing to make way against the rapidly lessening space of the room that suddenly seemed small and confined in their ears.

Until it exploded. It burst into a song of triumph, just as the water had, the notes dancing in maniacal glee and laughing as they stampeded out the window in a rush, escaping the boundaries of the room like ideas flowing from the mind. It became fainter and fainter, the noises of the laughter and trampling feet dying away into nothing. The flute gave one last breath of mingled relief and satisfaction, and silence settled.

"Exactly." Ulmo said in satisfaction, and Ecthelion nodded in reply.

* * *

 _Well, I did take this from one of my other stories and modified it, but I liked it so much that I couldn't help myself. XP this one shot was 760 words._


	13. AN!

_To all those who read my One Hundred Drabble Challenge;_

 _I will be posting another separate fic soon that will be part of the Challenge, called "Life, Interrupted: Scattered Pieces." I hope you will take the time to check it out. Thanks as always for your reviews and follows and faves!_

 _Blessings, and may the Valar guide you, the Force be with you, and the odds be ever in your favor._

 _Kiya~_


End file.
